Show Your Face

By Guest Blogger: Dandelion

Before I began the first blog of my life, I would like to sincerely thank Ziah for providing me with the opportunity to share my thoughts. It is because of fearless voices like hers, that I have grown to unapologetically accept my own stream of consciousness. She was looking for writers a while back, and I jokingly said I would contribute. About a month later, here I am, a new voice in an overly saturated blogging world. However, unlike rap these days, most of the blogging world has something unique to contribute no matter how many blogs exist. What is my unique contribution you ask? I would hope the fact that my fingerprints are one of kind, count for something. But if that’s not enough to convince you, I would just suggest that I am a truth-sayer. No one tells my truth like me, because my truth is unique to my existence. I hope to present my thoughts on how I view the world, in a way not that you agree, but that you understand where this sistah is coming from. With that, the blogging shall begin….

I will never forget when I opened up the pages to the Prologue of Ralph Ellison’s novel The Invisible Man. As I read the words:

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted  Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids---and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible understand, simply because people refuse to see me (Ellison, 3).

tears began to fill my eyes. I looked behind me to make sure Ralph Ellison was not peering over my shoulder. My heart raced, as I looked to the front of the book where the publishing date of 1952 was plastered on the page. If the book was published before both my parents were conceived and Mr. Ellison was not standing behind me, how could he articulate that which I felt in my gut?  That one paragraph felt as though Mr. Ellison reached inside me, stole my feelings, put them in a book, and changed the word woman to man, to make it seem he wasn’t a literary thief. I had forgotten about this piracy of my feelings, until today. As much as it happens, I should be immune to being invisible. But I have to admit, that even the thickest skin can crack. It can heal, yet and still it’s susceptible to cracking when faced with people who look above you, and not at you. But this blog is not about me and my feelings of invisibility.  I said all this to explore the question of what happens when the invisible becomes visible. Case in point, Gabourey Sidibe.

Gabourey Sidibe has the honor of gracing the 25^th Anniversary Cover of Elle Magazine. When I found out the news I immediately became excited for her. However, my excitement turned to anger when I read comments that stated such things as, “they always want to put these type of black women on the cover of magazines to show we all look like this” or “they just continue to perpetuate stereotypes by propping this girl up” and blah, blah, blah. To those who state they always put “these” black women on magazines, when was the last time you saw a black woman that looked like Gabourey on a magazine? I’m waiting… (all you hear is crickets).  To those who say they are perpetuating stereotypes by propping “this girl” up?  Do you even know what a stereotype is? A stereotype is an ignorant conclusion of someone, based upon an ignorant assumption. It has nothing to do with facts!  A stereotype does not exist in the REAL F-ING WORLD. A stereotype is conceived in someone’s highly left field imagination that has no real contact with the type of person they are creating. I say no real contact, because me cooking in your kitchen and happily raising your white babies, me slaving in your fields, you seeing me in a couple of music videos or gangsta movies does not equal REAL CONTACT. Stereotypes do not have feelings or emotions beyond what the author in her or his (yes her always goes first, ‘f’ what ya heard) assumptive imagination creates for that stereotype.

Last time I checked Gabourey Sidibe was a human being, not a stereotype. But as I am realizing, this type of pervasive ignorance, this type of I don’t like seeing Gabourey Sidibe because she looks too black, too fat, too comfortable in her own skin and how dare she not apologize to the entire human race for existence type ignorance, is what happens when the invisible becomes visible. I, at one point, had become comfortable in my invisibility. I thought, “if they don’t see me who cares?” Then I woke up and realized, they want me to hide behind this veil of apology that they have created for me.  But I learned a thing or two from Gabourey. She taught me never to be afraid to show your face. When they try to X you out, just show your face. Keep on showing your face, till they have no choice but to look at you and put you on the cover of Elle magazine. You ain’t got too like what you see, but that won’t stop me. Thank you Gabourey for reminding me that the only person I owe an apology to is myself for being too afraid to show my face. To all my beautiful sistahs out there, take the veil off and show your face.

Missing Bear

Today my ferret passed. I have no words, just tears.

Lyrical Therapy w/ Amaziah Z.

For those of you who don't already know, I LOVE music. I'm a hip hop head, I love R & B, I love oldies, some rock, all of it.  This is part of the reason I often use music and lyrics to support my blogs. Music serves as so many things for us, I want to extend my love affair with music to the blog, blurring the lines of text and genres.   I started doing a song of the day on my facebook, but wish to extend it, with some amendments, to my blog.  Starting today, once a week, I will post a song of the week.  Then within the next few days the following blog will reflect the motivating factors behind the the choice for song of the week.

 For this week, the song of the week is Corinne Bailey Rae: Closer. Enjoy.


Next Blog Due September 3rd... but we all know how I am with deadlines, even those I make for myself. Much love and Peace.

~Ziah~

Freedom, Rebellion, and Responsibility…

     Is it possible to take too much responsibility for the things that happen, or don’t happen, in your life? When is it time to live by the saying, don’t stress about that which you cannot change? As a woman, more specifically a working class, Black woman with a unique history of struggle, suffering from the superwoman syndrome I take on a lot of burdens and unnecessary responsibilities. This led me to wonder when does responsibility become too much? How do we undo ourselves from these loads, acting stubborn like a true mule, to gain even the most miniscule sense of freedom?

     Before discussing taking on too much responsibility I need to discuss the flipside, rebelling against responsibility, because this is more often the case than the first predicament in this day in age. Over the past few weeks, well really the majority of my life but over the past few weeks it’s been a concentrated effort, I conversed with various people about different subjects all centered around the topic of responsibility and maturity or lack thereof. For example, a family member in her teens simultaneously wants people to treat her as an adult, while at the same time dodging all sorts of responsibility. Signs of maturity, in my book, include communication skills, ability to understand and articulate events and consequences, and doing things in life simply because these things need to be done. Although there are more characteristics of maturity than I listed, these are the most relevant to this blog.

Here is a conversation said relative and I had a few days back, well more like a few weeks now (damn procrastination). Disclaimer: I changed certain names and details to protect identities. “SFM” stands for Said Family Member and my dialogue is indicated by “Z.” My mom’s lines are distinguished with “Mom.”

Z: “”So SFM, I know you often feel like we are treating you like a baby, so let’s talk as adults and one factor of being adult is being able to communicate.”

SFM: “OK,” she said unsurely looking everywhere but at me. I already knew this conversation wasn’t going anywhere before it even started.

Z: “What’s been going on? Lately there’s been a disconnect between what is expected of you and what you expect from yourself.”

Background info: SFM recently made a lot of bad decisions. Out of respect for SFM, I won’t go into specifics, but the people she surrounds herself with don’t bring out the best in her and vice versa. The past few weeks she’s reached a climax of terrible. My friend Lucky once told a kid at the summer camp we both worked at last summer, who was a pretty bad kid, the following. “_________ there is a scale of badnesss that goes like this; terrible, bad, decent, and then good. You are TERRIBLE! So even when you are acting good, you’re just BAD!” This quotation exemplifies SFM lately. Even when she acts good, she’s just bad. I don’t want to be discouraging to SFM’s development and life choices but let’s be real. At this point in time, she’s JUST BAD, if not terrible. Read the conclusion of the conversation for further evidence of this point.

SFM: “I don’t know.”

Ma: “Can you elaborate; after all you want to be treated like an adult so let’s talk like adults.”

SFM: “Ok,” she responds with the same level of uncertainty as before.

Z: “You decided to run away, what made you think that was a good decision?” 

SFM: “I didn’t run away.” This is a key indicator of immaturity; lack of self responsibility and extreme denial of key events. SFM did run away. Mom said she could stay but if she can’t obey the rules she can’t live in her house. That’s not kicking someone out, something she fails to realize.

Z: “Regardless, that’s not the point. The end effect is the same regardless. You left home without your guardian knowing where you were. Did you enjoy your time away?”

SFM: “Yes!” she expressed sure of herself for the first time in the conversation, again to show out of touch with consequences she is.

     Given what happened while she was away, I know that was a damn lie. In order to handle and understand responsibility, you have to be honest not only with others but with yourself. When you are dishonest with others, the OJ phenomena happens and the lies start becoming your truth. After all the truth is subjective, so if you constantly perceive something as true long enough, it literally becomes your truth and that can permanently stunt your growth. The conversation continued along the same path; curt answers, guarded responses, and deflecting, which equals no progress. Although a short dialogue in a lifetime of irresponsibility, I hope the previous conversation helps to outline my qualms with these types of life styles and how these decisions are motivated by self centeredness.

     I had a similar conversation with a male friend. He and I were discussing relationships. He is an infamous cheater and everyone, but his girlfriend, knows. I asked him how he can love someone but continually be unfaithful and dishonest. He responded that he is young (he ain’t that young) and it is his time to be young and have fun since he’s not married yet. He insists that when he gets married he will be faithful, like somehow he will magically, after saying “I do,” stop cheating. Ok…

     He goes on to emphasize the importance of sex in a relationship. I asked if loving someone makes the sex better. His rebuttal, “naw, maybe for women that is the case, but for men we need good sex.” I asked why he could not find someone who fulfills all his needs. The conversation went on a while until I ended it realizing we would never reach a common ground. The main themes of the conversation were the constant omission of responsibility to his relationship and blaming things such as his age and gender, to name a few. I attributed his attitudes to mental age, because similar to SFM, neither of them truly examined their roles in the given situations. Although these are only two examples, they are not isolated incidents within the individuals discussed lives or society as a whole.

     Why is the norm becoming more and more self centered, working to avoid responsibility and gaining instant gratifications all under the guise of being “grown,” yet missing the key factor in growth—RESPONSIBILITY! This is also something I need to work on myself to certain extent because I am always making excuses for others and oftentimes myself, for ditching responsibility. I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that; however, my issues are slightly different in regard to responsibility. When I make excuses for others, I usually personally take on the responsibilities they avoided. So by excusing them I carry on the excused burden myself causing me to take on too much responsibilities and burdens and afflict myself to the position of superwoman or a “mule of the earth.”

     For example, while growing up my father was in and out of my life, until recently, along with a whole lot of other family drama. When my father would disappear for month on end I excused his actions internally by placing the responsibility on myself, that I wasn’t good enough or worthy. Lately I am coming to terms with this relationship and healing, but the insecurity was already there. This is kind of a circular argument. I responded to the previous situation the way I did because I was insecure, causing even more insecurity. I now see this is not as uncommon as I originally thought, but that doesn’t change the fact that this caused habits to form, insecurities to grow, and exhaustion, a permanent state of exhaustion.


     Therefore, how does one not take on too much responsibility? Taking on too much responsibility can be just as damaging, just in a different manner, as neglecting responsibility. I came up with the theme of this blog after dealing with SFM and realizing the responsibility she put off for her actions I personally picked up in twofold. As someone who deals with chronic pain, the negative stress, because there is such a thing as positive stress, has negative health consequences. The demand for this particular blog increased after a conversation with my dad’s wife, no relation.

     The following information is something I consider my scarlet letter. Just this fact shows the trend early on of taking on burdens or responsibilities that are in no way my own. I am revealing this to say this is a very sensitive subject that, even after more than two decades, the wound is just as fresh as day one. In fact, even as I write this I have to work hard to hold back tears. But then again, maybe holding everything in and repressing feelings is destructive. It literally eats me up inside but I am not at a point in my life where I can deal with these things head on. Writing this blog, although I maintain a great deal of ambiguity, is a testament. My whole life I have had to continually apologize for my existence, I'm not doing it anymore. I am here for a reason and whoever does not want to accept that does not have to, from this point on; I do not care anymore about those who make me feel guilty for being born.

     My very existence was unwanted in a variety of ways. Throughout my lifetime many people made this clear in one way or another. How can someone have a firm foundation on something so flimsy? They can’t. Many people are accidents, this is a fact, but my situation holds a certain uniqueness. My dad’s wife despises my existence. She’s gone as far as to say she hopes I die while I was sick in the hospital. I am 200% sure that she was sincere in her affirmation. Incidents such as the one explained above occurred since I was fourteen and before that my dad made it clear that I didn’t have as much worth for his paternal duties as his other children. I was an afterthought that he originally wanted to terminate before I became a problem. I internalized these events and reacted by attempting to be perfect in hopes of gaining acceptance. Taking all these responsibility on to myself at a young age while unable to have any control of the situation led to my failed attempts to gain control of the factors I could; such as my body. I suffered, and continue to fight, bulimia since I was eleven.

     By the time I had the tools to comprehend my situation, the situation I was literally born into, the damage was already done. As soon as I started to accept myself and attempted to push out these feelings of insecurity my dad’s wife calls. In January, my dad’s wife said she forgave and accepted me. Seems kind of backwards that she would have to forgive me but I was ready to put that part of my life behind me that I went along with it. Why she said this I don’t know, because obviously she didn’t mean a damn word that was coming out of her mouth. A few weeks ago her true colors came out.

     I don’t want to give all the details of the conversation because I don’t want to get petty. The main fact is she called to reinforce my insecurities of myself as a human being. She wanted me to apologize for my existence and for the first time I stood up to her. I didn’t stoop to her level and get ignorant. Instead after she finished talking, while holding back tears and trying to sound firm and assertive I stated, “I am sorry that you feel that way, but I have been apologizing for my existence my whole life. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m ending this conversation with that. Have a wonderful night.” With that I changed my number and put this behind me because for one of the first times in my life, after crying and taking on the burden, I came to my senses and let go of responsibility of the way my dad’s wife and my own situation because I have no control over that. Although it’s slow in coming, I think I am on the right track to finding the balance of responsibility in order to maintain internal freedom. Long story short, well not really because it’s already a long story, these are gray areas, works in progress, and open for interpretation because responsibility, rebellion, and freedom are subjective terms.

Life and Blog Updates

Dear Readers,

     I apologize for missing my own deadline. I just typed the latest blog and, after editing, I will publish it.  I also have personal updates. I am in the process of changing my name to Amaziah. I will oftentimes use Zia or Z for short.  For the reminder of the life of this blog this will be the case. It is a long time coming but I feel at peace with the decisions. It is all part of the ritual of accepting myself while at the same time transforming myself. Thank you for you patience, it won't be in vain.

     In the meantime check out the video for my Lendactic's new business, Positive Wraps. Enjoy


~Z~

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you, without some insightful words to blog to ;)

Greetings readers, I know it has been a very long time. Life in action I suppose.  However, I am inspired and writing . New Blog: Freedom, Rebellion, and Responsibility due out August 13, decided Friday the 13th will be appropriate for this one.  Thanks for your patience.

Amaziah Z      

Aka Chronic Sista

The Affects of Trauma

     Three days ago I got in a serious car accident. My car was totaled and, although I walked away from the collision with few injuries, the trauma was severe.  Ironically the prevalence of extreme trauma corresponds with my location, New Orleans, and my research, vulnerable bodies during and after Hurricane Katrina. During the accident things simultaneously moved in slow motion and in fast forward. I know this may not make sense at first, but that is the only way I can describe it. I saw the car coming from the driver’s side of my car and although I had time to think “why is this car coming, it needs to stop, what is going on?” I did not have enough time to react correctly to avoid the accident. By the time the last thought crossed my mind the driver’s side door came crashing in.  Silence and darkness.

    I really don’t remember much. I don’t know why I could not react quicker. When I discussed the incident with my mother she explained how later in the day, the accident happened around 1:45am, cognition and reaction decreases.  All of which is a part of fibro fog. I am not one to blame everything on an illness, but it makes sense. I am normally such a defensive driver, yet I was frozen in confusion so much I couldn’t react. Immediately after the accident, once I realized what happened, a stream of consciousness ran through my mind.  “What happened? Did I die?” followed by pinching myself to confirm that I was in fact still alive. That’s when the extreme pain in my left side kicked in and when I looked over I saw the car door reaching towards me as if in distorted pain, pain that was projected on to me. 

     As I looked over I also saw the other involved person’s car start to smoke under the hood, the same hood that now appeared to be part of my car like a Siamese twin, the panic kicked in. Ignoring the pain, I climbed over to the passenger’s side, one shoe and all, and ran out of the car unsure if the other car was going to blow up.   The rest is a blur. Somehow I ended up in the ambulance with a neck brace and two very friendly paramedics talking to me to keep me calm.

    The ride in the ambulance was a blur of tears, confusion, and internal disappointment.  All I could think of was my mom. On several occasions she expressed to me how I am on of the few things she has to live for and I just almost died.  After all the health issues and threats I lived through and I it didn’t matter because there in that intersection it could have ended in a second.  The tears became louder and progressed to hyperventilation.  I couldn’t deal with the pain from the car accident and the pain in my heart.  I felt like I was disappointing everyone, I expected more from myself and I didn’t live up to my own expectations. Although, looking back I realize my expectations are extremely high, flirting with perfection.  No one could live up to those expectations.  But at that moment, nothing else mattered.  The lights and siren of the ambulance provided the perfect soundtrack for my disappointment.  I never felt more alone, surrounded by those paramedics, in my life. 

     I suffered from bruised ribs, slight whiplash, other bumps and bruises, a black eye, and general soreness. With a script for painkillers in hand, I head home around five in the morning still numb inside with the external pain closing in on my heart. 

    A few hours later, deprived of sleep and overexposed to trauma, I forced myself to handle business in zombie mode.  Food had no taste, I couldn’t smile, I couldn’t think, all in all I couldn’t function. This carried on to the next two days. I contemplated leaving New Orleans and my research and hiding in the refuge of those who I loved, but then I started to wonder who exactly that would be. Would I be any less alone if I went back home? I decided against it realizing that I didn’t want to add failure to the growing list of feelings. 

    In retrospect, I realize these emotion and affects of trauma are not a new phenomena in my life. Through the plethora of events leaving me traumatized, the reactions were similar, if not identical. I can handle the pain, pain is the norm for me. But the reason the trauma is so difficult is because it brings back emotions that I work very hard to repress. 

     I don’t want to compare this experience, or any experience of trauma I experienced in the past, to Hurricane Katrina and the people who lived through it. But I cannot help but to better understand how, after five years, there is still this fear and the ability to talk about Katrina like it happened yesterday. It’s because of the trauma.  The way, when I force myself to drive since the accident, I am steadily nervous and wondering if a car is going to come out of no where, people share a sentiment of “I just don’t want to move again,” or, if another Hurricane happens like Katrina, I’m not coming back.

    We are survivors, but there is a limit of how much trauma one can endure and my accident pales in comparison to Katrina and I realize this.  Soon the pain will ease, but as the physical pain seizes, the pain and emptiness in my heart widens. I don’t know if it will ever close, after all, there’s only so much trauma we can endure.  

Channeling Zora

As a fellow strong, Black, female anthropologist I have nothing but love for Zora Neale Hurston. This is a picture tribute to her.  I have no words for today so pictures will have to do.

Reminiscing with tears

      I have been in New Orleans for almost three weeks. From an ethnographic standpoint, things are progressing.  From a personal view, things are at a standstill, if not regressing. I try to remain optimistic and grateful and I truly am grateful for the opportunity, but I cannot fight the sadness that creeps up from my belly and remains stuck in my throat. Usually my blogs have some grand theme, meaning, or purpose, but this blog parallels my thoughts and emotions.  It is a random account of confusion. The title is misleading, I am not reminiscing as much as I am wishfully thinking about the future, not sure the word for that though.  The tears part is accurate, when the sadness finds its way up from my throat it comes out as tears, heavy painful tears. 

     I arrived in New Orleans on June 4th 2010 at approximately 10:00pm with my friend who split the trip with me. That was the longest road trip I took and the most I drove at once. About eleven hours driving between the two of us. It was also the most exciting trip mixed with bridges, bugs, storms, and Perkins.  I am not going to give an account of everything because that would be boring and tedious.  The main obstacles are the streets (full of potholes as big as your car), the bugs (that appear to be from prehistoric times), and loneliness (my friend left after a few days). After several dead end contacts and frustrated days constantly on the verge of tears I got active. I tried to remember every ethnography I ever read and tried to decide what my first steps should be.
    
     Like I said at the beginning of this post, my ethnographic work is going well. After the first few weeks things picked up. Don’t get me wrong, it is still coming slow, but that is not unique.  However, being someone who suffers from chronic pain; pain that is exacerbated by stress and weather changes, fieldwork is painful in more ways than one.  However the chronic pain I experience, parallels the emotional and mental pain of being in a new place constantly looking for companionship and oftentimes coming up empty. 
    
     Thinking back to the title of this blog “Reminiscing with tears,” I am reminiscing.  I miss someone who was very special to me. It’s like crack and the first hit, something I don’t personally know about but have heard.  You can never achieve the same high you got the first time, but you always try.  He and I were wonderful in the beginning, I always wanted to be around him and he always made me smile.  Lately it’s all tears. Being in a new place dealing with pain, you need a familiar face and kind words. He doesn’t supply any of that. This is not a blog to bash him though, I still have so much compassion for him, I just want to get the same feeling I got the first hit. I can’t help but wonder if this is who he is or if how he was in the beginning is who he is? That is too simplistic though, that is buying into the notion that we have a single identity when I know better and understand that we all perform with multiple identities in varying contexts. But is it too much to want consistency?  My heart hurts and it’s hard to work on concentrate with a heavy heart that serves as a catalyst for chronic pain everywhere.  I wonder, will it hurt more to let  him go or to hang on to nothing.  After all, sometimes pain reminds you that you are alive, but how much of it can you take before it kills you?

Started My Locs, let the countdown begin.

Death for Granted

***Disclaimer: This is the first time I am posting a very personal blog, so please be kind with comments***

      Being in New Orleans doing field work is hard, but nothing out of the usual beginning jitters and insecurities of starting out fieldwork in a new place. What is making it unbearable is mourning the death of a friend will being overly emotional (thanks to PMS and homesickness).  When I was eleven I moved to a predominantly white town and that was very difficult for me. I had no friends, I was one of the only Black females in town, and I didn’t know the culture of the area. I went out looking for friends and I found enemies. 

     About a year after I moved to the area I met a girl.  She lived down the way from me and what started as a friendship of convenience turned into, now looking back, a true friendship. She was younger than me and had the cutest little brother.  Although there  was an age difference we clicked. She looked up to me and I constantly learned from her.  Never think you can’t learn something from everyone you meet because if you deny that you won’t get the most out of relationships.  We became the three musketeers with another girl from the community.

     I started upper grade and she was still in middle school.  When she started upper grade I was in eighth grade and as we got older the distance grew.  Then she moved to California when her mother got remarried. I later found out the marriage did not work and she moved back to the town. By that time we grew apart so I am not sure when she moved back. I believe I may have already started college. However, these are all excuses. In this technological age there is no reason for us not to have kept contact but we did lose contact. It was about six years since I thought about her and I regret that. 

     Yesterday my sister calls me and tells me that my friend died.  My immediate response was, “wow I haven’t thought about her in forever, that’s really sad for her family.” My second thought was, “what did she die from?” After all she was younger than me.  I am still not 100% sure what the cause of death was, the obituary didn’t reveal that information. The more I thought about the situation the more I began to really regret losing contact. She was a genuinely nice and authentic person.  I found her facebook page today and that was an even harder stab in the heart because there was no reason for me not to reach out to her after all these years.  The more I saw pictures, the more memories came swarming back. For the past few hours I have been on the verge of tears and that makes me feel guilty because I don’t think I deserve to mourn her death. It is my fault we lost contact. I don’t want to be one of those people who immediately own the mourning process. I have seen so many times, people who barely know the deceased perform the mourning ritual because that is what is expected of them. Whenever someone dies a million “friends” come out of the woodwork.  Death is popular, that is not to say the dead shouldn’t be mourned but it should be genuine.

     I knew her very well but it was so long ago. Who’s to say she is even the same person. I feel like a fraud for being sad which is ridiculous because this isn’t about me. I am so sorry we grew distant and I am sorry it took her death for me to think about these things.  Death is hard but life can be harder.  I always learned things from my friend and even in death she continues to teach me lessons. Her death taught me to cherish people, I know it is cliché but it is true. I think it was Kanye West who said to give people flowers while they can still smell them. I am paraphrasing but I think this is dead on (no pun intended). In the meantime I am constantly on the verge of tears that continue to stay hidden and leave me with an big knot in my chest.

A Brief Blogging Hiatus

Hello my dear readers,

I am in New Orleans with no internet access at home so I will be taking a brief blogging hiatus. Don't fear, I have plenty to write about so hopefully sometime next week I will have some good stuff for ya.  Thanks for understanding.

Amaziah Z

Love Songs?

  
  I know I promised a blog entitled, Cup of Love Run Dry: how we treat or mistreat those closest to us, but I am inspired and can’t ignore it.  In media and pop culture every other song is about love or lack of love or love lost.  For someone who is irritated with the concept, it get’s very trying on my nerves. But then I started to think, for a country so obsessed with love, you’d think we would be better at it, but that is one thing, among many, that we fail at constantly.  Why is that? Disclaimer: this blog, in no way, attempts to serve as a love self help guide or anything of the sort. Anyone who personally knows me, knows that I am in no position to give out love advice. This is simply commentary on the current state of affairs in the love department.  
     I used to absolutely love the song In Love With You, by Erykah Badu (I know, I know, I mention her in practically every post, but if it fits, it fits) and even considered it being my wedding song, when I was still open to the concept of marriage. The song goes as following.

And she says she needs more than a friend
That's all I ever been yo
Well one day you gon' overstand yo badu
And I remember the first time that we met yo
How could I forget
When you smiled
And I turned and said to you
Yo, your pure and true
I'm in love with you, in love with you
I'm in love with you, in love with you
I'm in love with you, in love with you
I'm in love with you, in love with you, yeah
I'm so in love baby
I don't care what your mama say
Standing in love lady
And I don't care what your sister say
Yo badu I need ya
[Badu]
He said he's really diggin me
I don't know what to say
I can't imagine why I feel so weak, say, say
That's when he took my heart in his hands
And kissed it gently
He open up his lips then said this poetry
I'm in love with you, love with you
Love with you, love with you
Love with you, love with you
Love with you, love with you
I'm so in love baby
I don't care what your brothers say, no
I'm so in love baby
I don't care what the people say
[Lion & Badu]
Well I try and I try and I try
And I try and I try and I try and I try and I try
[Lion]
And you said you need more than a friend
That's all I've ever been yo
Well one day you gon' overstand yo badu
[Badu]
And when I look In your eyes
I know that you were meant to be
My solider so baby come on
I mean it desperately
[Badu & Lion]
I'm in love with you, love with you
I'm in love with you, in love with you
No see I'm in love with you, love with you
No, no, no I'm in love with you, in love with you
I'm so in love baby
I don't care what the people say
Standing in love lady
And I don't care what your sister say
I'm so in love baby
I don't care what the writers say
(Badu-da-dee..)
I try, I try, I try, I try
You in love with me
You in love with me
No you in love with me
No, no, no you in love with me
No see you in love with me
No, no, no you in love with me
No you think you in love with
No, no, no you in love with me
I know you're in love with me
No, no, no you in love with me
Alright I'm in love with you
Yes I'm in love you
I'm in love with you
And I'm in love with you
I'm in love with you
I'm in love with you
I'm in love with you
I'm in love with you
(Badu-badee...)
Yes I'm in love with you
Yes I'm in love with you

I probably didn’t have to post the whole song because once you read one line, you get the jest of it. 
     Although I can still tolerate this song when my mood is right, it doesn’t seem like the song is describing love, and given Ms. Badu’s own personal love background, I think I am on point with this one. If you read my Humility post, you will see some overlap with my critiques.   The last stanza or so is a competition between the two singers over who loves who, who loves who first, and whatnot. This competitive nature is a referent for pride and pride can’t be a factor in love, at least the kind of love I believe in.
     Joss Stone has a song called Super Duper Love.  In the first stanza she attempts to define love. Instead, this stanza seems to describe a common misperception, confusing what you think is love with a facade, keeping up an act or performance. That is not to say that we aren’t always performing but this isn’t the place to get into Goffman or Butler. 

Yeh are you diggin on me
Yeh yeh yeh
Im diggin on u now baby
Yeh do u wanna little bit of my love
Yeh wait a minute wait a minute
All the time i knew that you loved me
Because you were always there
Could i be that mistaken
Believing that you really care
In the presence of all my friends
You stood there holding my hand
And you promise me faithfully
That you will be my only man

So is that all it takes? Diggin on one another and performing in a nature that is reminiscent of what others think love is? I’m not convinced that is love, especially not super duper love as Stone describes it.
     So maybe me being sick of love songs reflects the fact that many of the “love songs” are not love songs at all.  I am in no way trying to conflate these two songs with all love songs, I just don’t have time to go through any more so these two serve as examples.  These songs are sad excuses for attempting to address the topic.  Maybe that is why we aren’t better at love.   Although we appear to be obsessed with it, we aren’t obsessed with it. We are obsessed with the appearance of love in a very self serving way. I don’t have a definition of love, so I guess that is something we will have to ponder together, but I do think it exists, just as much as anything exists. It’s all about how we interpret it.

Intergenerational Genius; and now a word from my mother

Guest Blogger: Lendactic

     This weekend my daughter introduced me to sushi.   For many years I found the very idea of sushi distasteful (pun intended) then my daughter informed me it could be made with cooked fish, took me to an excellent Japanese restaurant for my first taste and rocked my taste buds.  Oh my goodness sushi is a huge explosion of taste, each layer complementing the other and stimulating various areas of my ecstatic tongue. Who knew!  My daughter introduced me to something amazing and I am a sushi fan for life.
     My daughter and I hunted down the ingredients (not easy to find seaweed in the small town I live in) and made our own sushi. Surprisingly it was very easy to make in spite of its complex taste.  This entire experience was enjoyable on so many levels.  It was nice to spend time with my daughter who I think is the best thing about my life, and I always enjoy broadening my experience, but this weekend made me think about the value in letting the young teach us old dogs . 
      I am a 51 year old a mother of three, college graduate, a fairly intelligent person, lifelong learner, avid knowledge seeker, critical thinker, independent, and generally a nice person.  Yet when my mother and I talk you would think I was a total idiot!  She talks to me as if I know nothing and she knows everything.  Yet her life is evidence of how little true wisdom she has acquired and used in her life. But she is old and sick and I let her lecture me and correct me and pretty much beat me up with her words so that she can continue to see herself as the expert with all the answers. It doesn't hurt me and I know this false image of herself is something she needs to hold onto but this weekend with my daughter made me think of all that my mother is missing by her need to have all the answers, right or wrong, and no longer asking questions or opening up herself to new ways of thinking. The saddest thing about her life are the walls she puts around herself to block pain and in the process block love. She takes a lot of medication--I wish medical science had a pill for this. Sushi might be a start if only this daughter could get her mother to experience it like my daughter did for me.  Well you know what they say about hope—it springs eternal so who knows.  What I know is that sushi is the bomb and my beautiful daughter is amazing.

Next Blog: Cup of love run dry: How we treat or mistreat those closest to us

Coming May 31st 2010 at the latest, be on the lookout.

Humility

      My mother is always saying that most of the problems in human relations are solvable through humility. The more and more I think about it, the more I agree. We try to complicate things, but humility is key. Read any relationship help guide book and they will discuss power and negotiating power. But do we ever stop to wonder why power is such a huge issue? I think the answer is pride. We have soooo much pride and need to always maintain power and control and that is where the problems start and where the solutions halt. The solution is humility.

     Merriam Webster defines humility as "a quality or state of being humble." Good ole Webster continues on to define humble as "1. Not proud or haughty: not arrogant or assertive. 2. Reflecting, expressing, or offered in a spirit of deference of submission <humble apology>." I think those terms are self explanatory, but dissecting these terms is vital in understanding this blog. (Guess this is the linguistic anthropologist in me as much as I hate to admit it.) Not proud or haughty, I personally think that pride is a useless emotion. What is the motive behind pride? 

     Pride implies a sort of competition, a desire to one up someone to increase their own feelings of pride or achievement. Oftentimes, in order to maintain your pride, you must belittle another. Ways to maintain pride; act condescendingly, not admit when you are wrong, not even consider the fact that someone else's ideas are just as profound or more profound than their own, ignore other's feelings because you are overly concerned with your own and you are concerned about how you are going to be perceived by others. None of these reasons benefit both parties involved. So I ask again, what is the motive behind pride and how could it possibly improve a relationship. If anything, it is a selfish emotion with even more self centered motives. Why can't we build ourselves up differently?

     Pride isn't simply an issue in romantic relationships; it plays a role in all of our human relations. I have a friend who doesn't completely believe in love; however, through his actions, he is a clear believer of pride. Pride goes hand and hand with competition. In this "me" generation, it is conditioned into us from a very young age. When a child accomplishes a feat the parent usually asks, "Now insert name aren't you proud?" This pride evolves into something that we begin to need like air at the expense of others. I would prefer to believe in something that may or may not be real, like love, than practice something that is very real and very deconstructive as pride. Lack of humility keeps your from fully appreciating people around you.  Humility is simple when we stop relying on pride to build ourselves up. So the next time you are debating whether or not to rub something into someone else's face, talk down to someone, or neglect an alternative way of doing something, stop and have a little humility. In the long run, it will save you a lot of trouble.

Why Black Women Can’t Love Black Men

     "Why is it so hard for Black women to love us [Black men]? Because we love them the way Amerikkka loves us" (Essex Hemphill). This statement, unpacked, reveals the intra and inter racial dynamics that continue to make Black women appear unloveable; however, the key word in this sentence is appear. In Mules and Men, Zora Neale Hurston (1935) describes the Black female experiences through imagery of mules of the earth. This means that Black women carry a plethora of burdens and wear a multitude of hats in society. We nursed white babies while feeding our own. We were/are simultaneously mammies, jezebels, sapphires, welfare queens, and bitches when convenient. Our looks make us "exotic" and "hypersexual," while our race makes us readily accessible. Whoever told you first wave feminism, a term and categorization I hate to use, was during the nineteenth and early twentieth century didn't know the heart, soul, and determination of Black, female slave women. While white women reinforced and reproduced White, male, patriarchy supremacy (props to bell hooks) to protect their own sanctity, Black women fought for control over their own bodies and families. Black women knew herbal concoctions to induce miscarriages, to prevent their children from a life in shackles. Black women led slave revolts in the United States, Brazil, and Haiti. Let's not forget Harriet Tubman successfully executing the first female led guerrilla movement along the Combahee River. This is not about which feminism was better and which was first, these examples illustrate how Black women continue to be the mules of the earth. With this positionality comes strength, resilience, resistance, and beauty but there is a flip side.

    The flip side of Black women's strength are the myths of the "black superwoman," "the black matriarch," and "the black female emasculator." These concepts did not appear out of thin air, institutional factors such as welfare reform and the Moynihan reports aided in the production and reproduction of these concepts. Regardless of their historical trajectory, one of the unfortunate outcomes was divisions in the Black community. I am sure I will get a great deal of criticism from Black men for this blog, but I don't agree in using silence as a way to hide "dirty laundry." What silence does is marginalize and oppress certain voices within a community. I am so sick and tired of Black men silencing Black women's issues on gender inequality, which is inextricably linked with classism and racism, because they think racism is the main issue. Until we combat racism, let's ignore the other issues in the Black community, including intraracial sexism. But when Black slave women were raped by the white slave owner, they were also being raped by their Black significant others and/or fellow slaves, an issue that is under researched and considered taboo. What we need to realize is rape is not simply a sexual act; rape is an act of power, oppression, and dominance. Rape is used as a weapon, oftentimes by the "powerless", to regain power and control in a way that usually do not directly affect the oppressor. In the case of intraracial rape in slave communities, male slaves used rape in an attempt to regain the power completely stripped from them during the inhuman institution of chattel slavery. This isn't Texas so I can call it what it is. The scope of intraracial rape are unknown and I am not discussing this to dismiss interracial rape and/or to excuse the actions of the rapists. I bring up intraracial and interracial rape in the slave community to provide context to the perception of Black women's bodies and their sexual availability. The case of Saartjie "Sarah" Baartman also illustrates this point. Black women are the scapegoats because of their intersectionalities of oppressions. Instead of privileging the discourses, or as Donna Harraway would call "situated knowledges," because of their unique lived experience, Black women were and continue to be silenced by white men, Black men, and white women… But some of us are brave.

    So how does the history of slavery and oppression fit into why Black women can't love Black men, after all that is the title of this blog? Hurston (1965) explains that, although Black women are the mules of the earth, they aren't passive victims. Mules are animals used to carry things, yet they are also stubborn and strong minded and willed. These are survival mechanisms that can easily be used in an alliance with Black men; unfortunately, instead it is oftentimes misread as a threat to Black men. According to Daniel Patrick Moynihan (1965) in The Negro Family: The Case for National Action, he declared that the reason for the "demise" of the Black community (according to white standards) were Black female headed households. Moynihan's report gained national attention to the Black and white communities; academic, mainstream, and political. Instead of fighting for equality, a term that means something very different for white feminist and feminist of color, many Black power movements focused their attention of recreating Black men as people of power, this usually meant power over Black women. Elaine Brown, former chair person of the Black Panther Party for Self Defense (BPP) came to speak at the University of Illinois in 2006 and explained how several meeting of the BPP dedicated its agenda to discussing issues such as, how many steps behind the men the female members should walk. Brown also expressed, in No! The Rape Documentary, how when she became chairperson she had to enforce a new rule that stated that the men in the BPP could no longer call women bitches. Eldridge Cleaver, another member of the BPP, equated women's power in the organization to their anatomy, claiming that they had "pussy power." These facts are not to say that organizations such as the BPP were simply spheres of gender oppression. The very fact that Elaine Brown was chair person shows that while these organizations could be very sexist and misguided, they were also a space for social change.

    The backlash of Black women having to step up and be strong, serving as mules, but lifting as they climbed, is beautiful. No one can argue that. However, I had a friend say to me that he usually doesn't date Black women from America. He dates "foreign" women because "Black women are fucked up because of all their baggage." My friend added that "Black men are also fucked up," but I guess he wasn't as concerned with that since he doesn't date men. I am not throwing him under the bus because there is some truth to what he is saying, Black women do have baggage. Erykah Badu wasn't lying when she made the song "Bag Lady."





In fact, I oftentimes think she made that song specifically for me and I am still trying to lighten my load. But the fact of the matter is, sentiments such as my friend's, to abandon Black women romantically and/or socially because of the oppressions we went through and continue to bravely face, much of the time because we were trying to support and defend Black men, is straight up bullshit. Is it inevitable that "when they see us coming, niggas take off running…one day he gon say, you crowdin my space?" (Badu 2000). Black women must suffer in silence because when we complain about legitimate issues it is characterized and stigmatized as baggage? When did Black men and Black women become enemies, when we would make perfect allies? Instead of comparing our oppressions to decided which single oppression to combat, we need to work together and realize that our "oppressions intersect, but are not interchangeable" (Phil Williams, 2010). 
     
     If we want to start ranking oppression then Black men need to realize that it actually does them a disservice. Black women are victimized by multiple oppressions based on race, class, gender, and sexuality, so if we are going by numbers, we trump black men so maybe Black men should shut up and listen to us for once. I don't believe in that though. I am often criticized for my lack of competitiveness; but I remain in favor of building alliances and communion. Until Black men stop over compensating for their oppressions and realize Black women are multiply-oppressed by institutional power and sexism in both Black, white, and other communities, and are not the enemies, Black women cannot productively love Black men. Notice, I said "productively love". Until this happens, Black men will continue to love Black women the way Amerikkka loves them, and I just ain't havin that.

Next Blog: Why Black Women Can't Love Black Men

Coming soon... Be ready.

Today was a good day, well kinda

     Today's post is, in part, a commentary and critique of big credit card companies. This morning, when I went outside to take the dogs out, wait let me backtrack first. The person who I care about deeply left last night and I won't see him for three months. Needless to say, I am crushed. However, I am staying strong and keeping busy.  My guy called this morning around eight thirty to tell me a hilarious story. I was happy to hear it but he woke me up and I couldn't get to sleep until five am that morning (gotta love insomnia mixed with exhaustion, sounds like a contradiction but it really isn't).  I stayed awake to talk then passed out until about one thirty in the afternoon.

     So when I initially said this morning, this afternoon would be a more accurate portrayal.  Moving on...this afternoon, when I went outside to take the dogs out and checked the mail, I saw two envelops.  They didn't appear to be bills, so I opened them unconcerned.  One was the normal statement from my car insurance company, check. The second envelop was from my credit card company. Brief context: This is a credit card I am actively paying off.  I have never had a late payment and before that point, never went over the limit.  About a month or so ago someone hacked into my checking account and wiped it clean.  While the bank processed the paperwork to fix the problem I had to continue living so I used a credit card for everyday expenses. I have two credit cards from the same company and they both look they same. I accidentally used the wrong card for my transactions during this time.

     This letter was the credit card company informing me that because I went over the limit ONE time, they were raising my interest drastically. I thought OBAMA helped the po folk, but according to the arrogant telephone representative, the only thing Obama changed, I am not saying improved intentionally, is that now the credit card company has to inform you before they screw you over... GEE THANKS FOR THE NOTICE EVEN THOUGH I CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT!  Like Huey Freeman says, what do you think about Obama? Ehhh... I am sure I am going to get some slack for that one.

     Don't worry about me though, I almost let that ruin my day, but like the title of this post says, today was a good day.  I didn't experience extreme pain today.  I ran my errands.  I went onto one of my three jobs to do some paperwork.  I went to the fellowship office to sign the document so I continue to get my money.  I had a wonderful lunch with friends before they leave to go off and be grown ups.  I went to my department and signed up for a summer reading course to supplement my summer research in NOLA.  I ordered the part to get my car fixed.  I went to the grocery store and spent less than I thought I would.  All in all, that's not too shabby.
    Today also marks the fifth day of vegetarianism.  I made a delicious brown rice, vegetable stir fry.

  It was absolutely wonderful.  I am really not missing meat. I think I can do this.  Loc Update: Loc consultation is tomorrow, if I like it, I hope we can schedule an appointment the next day.  Well back to grading papers.  A Bientot.

Contemplation

       Since finding out about my Fibro my dad has called every hour on the hour with the same question, "How are you feeling?"  My response, "Ehh."  His reply, "Did you take your medicine?" If my answer is no he grills me on why I am not for about three point two minutes.  If my answer is yes he goes off on this rampage on well maybe you need a second opinion.  My doctor is great; you should go see him.... blah blah blah.  My thoughts while he is talking to himself, "Your doctor is in Joliet, I am not going to drive two hours to go to the doctor." "Your doctor isn't even a rheumatologist." and "Why the hell do you keep trying to pan your doctor off on me? LEAVE ME ALONE YOU ARE STRESSING ME OUT MORE!"  If I don't answer the phone he calls nonstop about eight times, then calls my mother to see why I am not answering.  This is just too much. He was like this before knowing, but now it is unbearable. Can I have a moment of peace for contemplation?  To be continued...

I am sure this post is gonna earn me the label of hater, but it's not that, really

     Today my meds knocked me out t and I slept the day away. I missed my students' graduations and feel horrible about that.  Through the fog I am irritated and critical about several things.  One of the things that constantly urks me is the fact that I place higher standard on my own people, and unfortunately, they rarely live up to them.  One of the people living down to society's expectations is Beyonce. As the title says, this will probably earn me the label as hater, but I don't care. I used to love the Beyonce song, Why Don't You Love Me?, until I saw the video.




    Some of my qualms with it are obvious. For one, why is it so hard for performers, I am intentionally not calling her an artist, to accept that as public figures they are inherently role models and to perform and behave as such? It isn't hard, just think about people other than yourself and stop letting money motivate your actions. I assume one of the core fans bases of Beyonce's are young girls. In the video she is scantily clad, which is not a surprise but I felt I should add it to the list, reproducing gender norms, choosing to portray herself as a real life blow up doll with her pin up poses and empty stares, and smoking.
     I understand that the video is supposedly based in the fifties, but you only played Etta James in a movie, the cameras have been off for a while now. Don't get me wrong, I am all for equal rights. You want to walk around butt naked, go ahead, but don't do it under the guise of being a role model. In an interview, an interviewer asked Beyonce who her father is and she responded, "Jesus." Really Beyonce? Don't confuse this with a religiously zeolous rant, it isn't. It is a rant against hypocracy. If the "good Christian, southern woman" is the role you want to play, play it! But don't continue straddling the fence.
     I also don't understand why recent Beyonce videos have nothing to do with what the song is about. Simply listening to the song, it seems like an act of vindication. "Why don't you love me?" Is a hypothetical question. She doesn't want a response, she is proving that the man is an idiot for not wanting her and all her positive attributes. It is not her crying on the phone trying to get the man back.  The song is a giant f*ck you, you are plain dumb, I am too good for this. The video, with her on her hands and knees scrubbing, crying, throwing things, smoking to calm her nerves, is a pathetic plea for the man to come back. And who the hell cleans the house in that sort of get up? I don't understand the world. Erykah Badu gets a fine for this video:



Badu's video has a point, moral, and a theme and she is literally punished for this. However, Beyonce can put out any ole thang. So as for your question Beyonce, Why don't we love you, because it doesn't seem like you love yourself.

Upper, Back thighs and Lower Back

     Sitting here with my Barbie Pink laptop for breast cancer. I envy Barbie, not of her looks or her weight or anything superficial like that. I am envious of Barbie because she is plastic and pain free.  Although I am sitting in bed the way my mom said would cause the least pain and discomfort, I still hurt like hell with pain in my thighs and back. I cross one leg over the other at the ankle to relieve some stress. It helps for ten seconds, then the pain jumps to my other leg.  How shifty you are pain, what a trickster.  My two dogs, Assata and Sasha, are so understanding. I sometimes wonder if they were once people and that is why they understand why the walks continue to get shorter and shorter and why mommy rarely gets out of bed anymore.


     About a week ago Dr. Mc____________ diagnosed me with Fibromyalgia. I knew a little about it from the Lyrica commercials. The little bit I did know, I mainly knew there was no cure. This is permanent.  The National Fibromyalgia Association webpage defines it as such:

Fibromyalgia (pronounced fy-bro-my-AL-ja) is a common and complex chronic pain disorder that affects people physically, mentally and socially. Fibromyalgia is a syndrome rather than a disease. Unlike a disease, which is a medical condition with a specific cause or causes and recognizable signs and symptoms, a syndrome is a collection of signs, symptoms, and medical problems that tend to occur together but are not related to a specific, identifiable cause.

Fibromyalgia, which has also been referred to as fibromyalgia syndrome, fibromyositis andfibrositis, is characterized by chronic widespread pain, multiple tender points, abnormal pain processing, sleep disturbances, fatigue and often psychological distress. For those with severe symptoms, fibromyalgia can be extremely debilitating and interfere with basic daily activities.

What this means for me, other than waking up most days feeling like I was hit by a bus the night before; Memory loss a.k.a Fibro fog.  Great, that is what I need.  A Black woman in a discipline dominated by whiteness, in more ways than one, a discipline where I have to work twice as hard, no screw that, three times as hard, for people to think I barely got in to the program. Now I can't remember my next thought when writing a paper. Really looking forward to writing that dissertation.  Loss of coordination, so the everyday pain can be accompanied by the bump, bruises, and scraps from falling, tripping, and running into things.  Depression, insomnia, exhaustion, and less muscle recovery.  What I heard; your life is gonna be miserable, if it's not one thing it's something else. As if simply working on a PhD didn't cause these symptoms already.  Did I mention, the drugs really don't help anything but make me useless, dizzy, have blurred vision and keep me from being able to drink my glass of wine.  

     I could easily be defeated, feel like, what's the use... But I refuse. Stepping outside of myself and reading this blog I am sure I sound pathetic and I am OK with that. I don't mind venting, just as long as I use that rage in a productive matter.  My medical history has always been sketchy and although I am used to it as much as you can be used to it, I am not desensitized.  

     Dr. Mc_________ told me that treating Fibro is 90% lifestyle change and 10% drugs.  I decided to become a vegetarian about three days ago and to stay away from gluten.  Today I ate yogurt and organic granola for breakfast, and rice and vegetables for lunch.  I am also going to start belly dancing again, I cannot do high impact workouts but I can do low impact, rhythmic workouts.  I want to take control of my life, live a healthier lifestyle, and defeat this. I want to go a day without crying and feeling like I am losing my mind, losing my life, and losing everything I hold dear.  I need support. Carle clinic hold a Fibro support group every third Wednesday, I am going next Wednesday and I hope it helps to listen to people who have dealt with this. 

     This lifestyle change parallels my loc journey.  For months I wanted to loc my hair but have been too scared. Too scared of people judging me, too scared of not being what people expect me to be, and too scared of commitment.
Me before locs:   
I will put after pics up after my first appointment and subsequently thereafter. 
At this point I don't care about any of that, just my well being because I am the only one who is going to keep  me healthy and sane. I need to stay healthy mentally, physically, and emotionally. I see locs as a way to reach internal peace.
     Twenty days from today I will be on a road trip to New Orleans for the summer with a new attitude, healthier lifestyle, and an undefeated attitude. Giving myself deadlines keeps me on track. I may constantly and consistently be in pain, but that is not the end of me and I am not going to let this penetrate my soul, something I am still trying to regain.